


entomb

by Wagandea



Category: Little Witch Academia
Genre: Angst, Dark, F/F, Mildly Dubious Consent, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-10 01:48:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12288648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wagandea/pseuds/Wagandea
Summary: Croix hasn't cured Wagandea's Curse yet, but hey, Chariot is probably damn amused by the whole spectacle.





	entomb

The forest of Arcturus returns to itself in due time. Such is the nature of dark things. Even the _world changing magic_ they sought for so long was--temporary, in this place. It’s fitting that this is where Croix finds herself, cloak drawn tight around her shoulders, head filled with idiotic ideas of climbing to the top of Wagandea just like when they were children.

But Croix is alone, now, and her reasons aren’t so self-serving. _Penance_. The weight of her sins makes the climb that much more treacherous. There is no wand to save her, no broom, no sorcery unit.

Her hands are scraped raw by the bark. A branch snaps under her feet, and for a second the feeling of weightlessness sinks in, the moment before the fall. She closes her eyes and dreams of Chariot catching her, but nothing can be so simple. As if acting by themselves, her feet find another branch. Is this the salvation she has been searching for? Her hands, once perfectly manicured and soft, are bleeding.

When the second branch snaps, Croix falls, falls, falls.

 

\--

 

Years ago, and then not so long in the past, Croix was the one calling out for Chariot to wake up. Later, she thinks she hears her own name.

 _Wake up_ . If the fall doesn’t kill her, hitting the ground will. She keeps her eyes closed and waits for impact but doesn’t feel that, doesn’t feel anything, and it’s not like she _wanted_ to die but there are precious few ways this can end and Croix has been living on borrowed time since Chariot saved her in this very forest last year. _Foolish_ , she’d thought of Chariot at the time, and she thinks it again when she opens her eyes.

“Let me _down_.”

“Croix--”

It’s oddly nauseating, being suspended in midair like this. Croix oscillates slowly, five or six feet above ground, feeling very much like some sort of caged animal. Chariot steps back, and the hand holding her wand aloft, trembles. Croix wobbles, but doesn’t fall, and isn’t that _rich_. She looks so shocked, red eyes blown wide behind those awful glasses, lips slightly parted, and Croix can think of about ten uses for that mouth that aren’t just _talking_.

She cuts Chariot off before she can speak, knows her too well.

“Are you going to just _stare_?” she hisses, and sure it’s the anger that catches both of them off guard, but should this really be surprising? Parting on good terms was never a good look for them. She’s going to throw up.

There’s nothing. Chariot’s expression goes very blank, and if Croix wasn’t so in tune with her voice, she might miss the small whisper that follows. “I saved your life.”

“Congratulations,” Croix shoots back, and before she has time to say anything else she _is_ falling this time. Though not nearly as formidable as the impending impact from before, hitting the ground is enough to leave bruises, enough to knock the wind out of her.

She pushes up on her arms just in time for Chariot to loom over her, and that unreadable expression? That’s proof enough that they don’t know each other still as well as Chariot seems to _think_.

“Why are you here, Croix?” Her voice is high and intense. Croix might have missed that, once.

“I could ask you the same thing,” she says, and winces at the deep breath. “Unless you’re here for the same thing. You know what time of year it is. It’s been almost a year, hasn’t it? I’m sure you miss your broom.”

Chariot sucks in a breath, but Croix continues, and there’s a manic quality to her voice even as it drops in pitch, gets less hostile.

“I promised you--the next time I saw you, I would have found a cure for Wagandea’s curse. You’ve made me break my promise.”

“I’ll just leave you to that then, shall I?” Chariot’s voice is like glass, smooth and impossible for Croix to gain purchase on. She turns on her heel, stops just a few steps away. “Goodbye, Croix. I expect you’ll be here for some time, so I’ll let you find your own way out.”

 

\--

 

She doesn’t find her own way out. With one of her sorcery units it would have been stupidly simple, but maybe not even then, not with the way the branches seem to have closed in on all directions like the bars of a jail cell.

They did say that even witches can’t leave the forest once they’ve entered it. It seemed like bullshit at the time, but life has a unique way of coming back to bite Croix in the ass. Entering, leaving, it could be entirely conditional.

What’s keeping Croix here now, she doesn’t understand yet.

She isn’t sure if Chariot’s return appearance is a blessing or a curse. It’s only a day, day or two or three later, but it feels so much longer. Croix is famished when Chariot approaches the tree she’s sitting against, a ten year hunger, and the safe distance Chariot stops at is enough to remind Croix why she’s gone hungry. They may have worked in tangent in battle, put aside the last ten years for a few moments… but after the fact what was left? Bitterness and resentment and enough scars to last a lifetime.

They’ve done so much to hurt each other. That’s what it comes down to. More pain, more suffering, more heartache. Chariot is delusional if she thinks otherwise.

Even a cure for her sickness won’t fix that. Croix has pressed forward despite that, and where has it gotten her?

“I’ve spoken with Professor Woodward.”

“Have you?” Croix has _never_ been more disinterested in Woodward’s words than she is right now. “What does that have to do with--”

“I’ve spoken with Professor Woodward about _you_ ,” Chariot interjects more forcefully, eyes flashing behind her glasses. She’s so beautiful, wound up like this--Croix takes a perverse pleasure in being the one to incite such rare emotions in her. It doesn't last long. Given a few seconds and she’s as composed as always, where Croix is perpetually irritated and unsatisfied. “I asked if she knew why you’re here.”

“I thought that much was obvious--”

“ _Listen_ to me, Croix.” And for once, Croix shuts her mouth and does. Chariot takes a deep breath, jaw set, resolve like steel. She’s so beautiful. It’s not the first time Croix thinks it, and she hates herself a little more every time. “I know you came to get a sample of the Wagandea pollen. But I’ve...” And here, she looks a little sheepish. “I’ve had someone watching the leyline since I left, and I got worried when I didn’t see you come through.”

Worried?

“But when I spoke to Professor Woodward, she said you _couldn’t_ leave. So I thought… I thought I might...”

“You thought you would and see for yourself,” Croix finishes. But that isn’t the part she’s interested in, even if Chariot’s concern is _touching_. She crosses her arms, leans forward, interest piqued. “Did she say why?”

Chariot bites her lip, hesitates. Croix won’t like what she hears. “I… I really think you should go to her yourself.”

She backs away when Croix gets to her feet, but not fast enough. Leaves crunch under her heels and Croix’s fingers close around her wrists. They haven’t been this close in a long time. Chariot can feel it too, softens under Croix’s touch even if her grip is too rough, her eyes too dark. If she wanted to escape she could, always physically stronger, always one step ahead. It used to drive Croix crazy. It still does.

“Chariot.”

Chariot sighs, eyes flickering around, focus anywhere but on Croix’s face. She settles for staring down at their hands instead. Croix wants to rip the glasses off her nose. “I believe it’s one of her tests of character. She… indicated that you would be unable to leave until you made up for your past actions. I tried to tell her--”

“That I had my _wand snapped_?” She can’t help the anger or the frustration. A cold feeling spreads through her chest, and her fingernails dig into Chariot’s skin. “But I suppose the fact that I’ve been barred from buying a new one, from practicing spellwork, doesn’t _matter_ , does it? I know what everyone says about me, the public outrage that I didn’t get a life sentence, or the _death penalty_ for that matter--”

“ _Croix_.” And there’s a little pretty turn of anguish to her voice that might have stirred something in Croix’s heart if she wasn’t still focused on _Woodward_. “No one thinks that, no one at the school, all the girls know the truth. I don’t know why Woodward is doing this, but whatever it is there’s a _reason_ , don’t you think it’s worth listening to?”

“No, I don’t!” Croix’s voice raises with every word, until she’s standing there panting and yelling at maybe the only person left in the world she can trust, for something she doesn’t have an ounce of control over. “You might be content to play Woodward’s pawn, but I’m _done_ with having my life used as a fucking game! I came here for one reason and it wasn’t so she could set up another little test for me to fail again. I came here for Wagandea’s pollen, for my research. I came here for _you_ , essentially, but apparently that isn’t _making up for_ anything.”

“I never asked you to do that.” Chariot’s expression has that glasslike quality to it again, cold and hard. Croix’s teeth grind together in frustration. Then, much quieter: “You’re hurting me.”

Croix lets go of her wrists abruptly, as if the words had scalded her. Chariot, to her credit, doesn’t back away, just rubs the red marks on her wrists where Croix had been holding too tight, but that’s still _too much_.

Croix stumbles back, teeth clenched, hands balled up into fists. Who she’s angry at isn’t clear anymore, Woodward or Chariot or herself. It doesn’t matter. “I always do, don’t I? Go, then.”

Somehow, it still stings when she does. Maybe that’s why Croix always made an effort to walk away first. It all boils down to that pathetic schoolgirl incapable of holding onto the things she wanted most.

 

\--

 

Woodward has nothing to offer her. Croix decides this long before she makes the trek through the forest to her tree. But if Chariot _does_ return--and Croix wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t, despite the sick feeling that comes with the possibility--she’ll no doubt be _pleased_ Croix did as she asked.

Because ultimately? This is all for _her._ It’s always been about her. The slow realization is bitter, and tinged with resentment, but who ever said dedication had to be a good thing?

She’ll be petulant about it, childish. _Look, I did what you asked, and where has it gotten me? Nowhere._ Croix is not above these things.

Woodward knows before Croix even opens her mouth, before she materializes spirit-like in front of her, glimmering eyes cast downward in disapproval, damnation.

_“Croix Meridies. I see much has remained unchanged since our last audience.”_

Omniscience, or as close to it as one can get. Croix _abhors_ Woodward’s gifts, her voice like a biting wind, her all-seeing eyes. Nothing escapes Woodward's gaze. Croix bares her teeth in some sorry excuse for a smile.

“Since I broke from your grand scheme and acquired the Grand Triskelion myself, you mean?” The fact that it didn’t _work_ is neither here nor there. Woodward ignores her, anyway.

 _“You have come here because Chariot asked you.”_ Woodward is silent for a long moment, calculating. Croix imagines she’s drawing upon her inner eye to assess the situation, assess her. _“But I can see you would rather be anywhere else. How far would you go if Chariot asked you, I wonder? Is there anything you would not do for her favor?”_

Croix prickles. It isn’t exactly a _fair_ assessment, considering she almost killed Chariot, and actively tried to ruin her life, ruin her, but Croix bites back those words. “I’m not here to talk about Chariot.”

There’s a heavy, agonizing silence until Woodward speaks again. _“Your path is impossible to speak about, without Chariot. It is impossible to separate your fate from hers.”_

 _It’s always been about her._ Funny how well that worked out for both of them. A large part of Croix still wants to--not kill her, exactly, but there’s something appealing about suffering. If Woodward knows all this, it’s apparently unimportant to her plans, but Croix is left wondering if this was anticipated and planned out, the hard feelings and the fucking tragedy of the only meaningful connection she’s ever had.

“And yet, it isn’t _Chariot_ keeping me here.”

 _“No,”_ Woodward agrees, _"it is not. It is my magic that cages you. But if your path is to move forward, you must make peace with Chariot.”_

“Yes. Exactly what I was trying to do, no thanks to your _interference--”_

_“Is curing Wagandea’s Curse truly what you believe will provide restitution? Will this pay the debt to you owe her, not only for causing the loss of her magic, but for abandoning her and causing her great harm? For still desiring to?”_

Her mouth goes dry, and Croix feels very small in the godlike shadow of a woman she once revered. The truth hurts, or so they say. Lying through her teeth is the first mistake. “Yes.”

 _“Very well.”_ The whistling of wind is her final word, spirit turning to leaves on the forest floor.

 

\--

 

“I’ve spoken with Professor Woodward.” It’s a hollow mockery of the last time they met, Croix’s tone as black as her thoughts. Chariot sinks to the ground next to her and her presence is like a white light, invasive and bright. It’s hard to piece together exactly what she used to like about that, just knows she did. Now, Chariot’s brightness is only annoying.

They’ve each grown up while the other wasn’t looking. Chariot isn’t fifteen anymore, that underclassman who was cute in her naivety and baseless optimism, sneaking into Croix’s dorm room at night. It isn’t cute anymore, but it gets under Croix’s skin all the same.

“I know,” Chariot says, and Croix shivers when she draws her fingers over the back of Croix’s hand. They’re sitting too close to be strangers, but the distance between them is still palpable.

“You’re always one step ahead of me, huh?” Croix asks, and maybe that wasn’t the right thing to say, but Croix thinks she deserves to be as bitter as she is. She won’t look at Chariot, hopes Chariot won’t look at her either.

“That’s not fair.” _When has anything been, for me?_ Croix bites back the words, lets her continue. “I stopped to ask her something before I came for you.”

“She told you, then.” And through her bitterness, Croix somehow manages to miss it when Chariot moves. She flinches at the soft touch at her jaw, flickers her eyes forward to discover Chariot’s face encompassing the entirety of her vision. She always moves so fast. Croix goes very still, but Chariot leans in and--

\-- _a_ _nd she’s seventeen again, on that shitty top bunk with Chariot while her roommates are (hopefully) asleep. Chariot’s kissing her hard to keep her quiet, Chariot’s snaking a hand under her skirt. Croix keeps wanting to say no, even as her hips jerk up of their own accord when Chariot draws two fingers over the fabric of her underwear, right where a damp spot is starting to form._

_Croix’s never been good at saying no to Chariot, whether it’s about copying old notes and test answers, or something not so innocent._

_She doesn’t exactly know how to say no, either, even if she wanted to. How to say that no one’s ever touched her there before, how to properly convey the shame and disgust that follows even when touching herself._

_So she doesn’t. And when Chariot takes her mouth away to bite a string of kisses down Croix’s neck, when she presses her fingers just there over the fabric, Croix lets out a keening sound and finds a hand pressed firmly over her mouth._

_She doesn’t remember what Chariot said exactly, something about keeping quiet, but she remembers the dazed feeling that had followed, suffocating under the weight of a refusal she is no longer physically permitted to make._

This time, she isn’t so powerless--against Chariot, but mostly against herself. She catches Chariot’s shoulders roughly when Chariot goes in for the kiss, and jerks her head back to avoid it.

“No.” And she can almost tell what Chariot’s thinking when she gives her that look, eyes blown wide in surprise and betrayal, a question on her lips. _Woodward wants us to make amends_. “I’m sorry.” It doesn’t soften the blow. Croix lets go of her, gets to her feet. “I know what I have to do. By the next time you visit I’ll have made progress on--”

“There… may not be a next time.” Chariot works the fabric of her skirt between her fingers, deep wrinkles setting in while Croix’s mind goes _blank_ . She has half a panicked thought formed, _was refusing that one kiss after_ everything _really what did it?_

“Chariot, I…” She doesn’t know what else to say, what can she possibly say? Chariot gets to her feet, head bowed, smile sad. It’s just a kiss. Croix keeps thinking this, keeps trying to justify it to herself. Chariot can’t possibly expect Croix to fall back into her arms again after ten years of separation. Nevermind the fact that Croix doesn’t deserve that, doesn’t deserve anything from her.

“I didn’t just lose my ability to ride a broom.”

Then, it isn’t about the kiss at all.

“What?” Croix’s voice sounds weak to her own ears, and there’s this heady sort of feeling, this disbelief.

Chariot’s hands are worrying knifelike creases into her skirt. “My magic has been getting weaker. I think it’s been slowly progressing since last year, but it’s… gotten worse recently. Even if I _can_ access the leyline--via one of the Sorcery Units you left behind at Luna Nova--it won’t be safe for me here soon. I didn’t know how to tell you. I’m sorry.”

It doesn’t matter what Croix says next, so she doesn’t say _anything_. Just stands, shell-shocked, while Chariot lightly touches her shoulder and says “goodbye, Croix.”

“I’ll fix this,” she says, long after Chariot’s footsteps have stopped echoing between the trees.

 

\--

 

There is only so much that can be done, particularly stuck _here_ , but if Croix is being honest with herself, she knew a long time ago. She’s been going over these things, cursing her younger self for pursuing engineering over medicine, programming over biology. What’s the point if it wasn’t all for _her_ benefit? Croix hates that this is what her life’s become.

She visits Woodward again.

Croix is on her knees this time, under the watchful eye of she who might as well be God. There’s no courtesy, no smalltalk, just the cold wind and Woodward’s hard voice.

“ _To what lengths would you go to cure Wagandea’s Curse?_ ” The question is phrased differently this time, but still an echo of their prior conversation-- _Is there anything you would not do for her favor?_ And Croix doesn’t particularly want to answer this time either, but what other choice does she have?

She keeps her head bowed, hands on the forest floor. “Anything.” The leaves around her rustle and float a few centimeters in the air. Out of the corner of her eye, Croix can almost see the ethereal glow that heralds Woodward’s magic.

“ _Even good deeds come with a price._ ”

Croix looks up before she can think, eyes blown wide with surprise and something that might be hope. It’s that fragment of hope that does her in, and all at once the exhaustion sets in. She’s trembling, hasn’t eaten in days, body on the verge of giving out. “That means,” she starts slowly, throat raw, “that there is a way. Whatever the price is, I will pay it.” _I would give my life for her_. It’s these kind of intrusive thoughts that have the majority of her life a living hell.

“ _Yes,_ ” Woodward agrees, “ _there is a way._ ” And the leaves continue to stir around Croix, until she’s distantly aware that the light around the corners of her vision is not only a product of Woodward’s spell.

She looks down, just in time to see a small ball of light rise right out of her chest, through skin and bone and fabric. It slips right through her fingers when she reaches for it, dances upwards in the air. It mutates before her, wisp-like, until it forms the rough shape of a cube.

“ _Your magic_ .” Woodward answers her question before she has a chance to ask it. “ _It is impossible to generate magic energy out of nothing, and Wagandea’s Curse is troublesome. In order to fully restore Chariot’s magic, another’s must be taken._ ”

“All of it?” She feels very weak, her voice small. She could be seventeen again, standing in the immense shadow of a mentor figure who always preferred another student. Well, Croix is finally _useful_ to Woodward, but at what cost?

“ _All of it_.” Woodward inclines her massive head, and Croix shudders on an exhale. They both watch the cube of light, so small and insignificant, bounce around on the bitter wind. After a long few moments, Croix sits back on her feet, draws her arms around herself, and says:

“Fine. Take it.”

Woodward hums in response, and the cube shatters into seven stars. They cascade down towards the forest floor, then disappear altogether.

 

\--

 

The forest is very quiet when Chariot finds her sitting at the base of the Wagandea tree. Everything feels--very normal, in a way Croix is unfamiliar with. There’s no crackle of magic in the air, she can’t feel it in the forest or in her blood or from Chariot.

Most of all, she’s tired.

“I’ve spoken with Professor Woodward,” Chariot says very slowly, and Croix dearly hopes this will be the last time she ever hears that sentence. “I thought it had something to do with you, when I woke up this morning and my magic was restored, but I didn’t think...”

“Is it all back?” Croix asks, and waves her hand towards the broom clutched at Chariot’s side. And she’s trying to smile, but Chariot just looks drawn and miserable, and it’s really dragging down the point Croix is trying to make here.

“Yes.”

She could _sound_ happy about it, at least. Croix manages to get the bitter thoughts under control before she _too_ consciously thinks the words _ungrateful bitch_ in Chariot’s direction. She struggles to her feet, runs a hand through already messy hair, and tries that smile again. This time, she hopes, it’s blinding enough to knock a little sense into Chariot. “Good. You can give me a ride back to Luna Nova, then.”

“Okay.” Chariot exhales audibly, and doesn’t move, so Croix goes to her instead. When she gets there, she tries to soften her expression, extends a hand to squeeze Chariot’s shoulder.

“Hey,” she starts, with as much humor as she can impart to the situation. “I’ve finished my business, so about that kiss from yesterday...”

And this time, their positions are reversed. It’s Croix going in for the kiss, and it’s Chariot who abruptly ducks her head away, eyes glued to the ground.

“I--um. Let’s just… go back home, Croix. You must be exhausted.” Her voice is soft and accommodating, but it sounds a little like she’s going to cry. It sinks in, and then the smile slowly slides off Croix’s face and _she_ feels like she might cry, too--

“Okay.” She echoes Chariot dully, and it’s a concession, because things are anything _but_ okay. She pulls her hand from Chariot’s shoulder and Chariot, finally, gives her a small, sad smile.


End file.
